


Crash Into Me

by WomanFromTRASH



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Rape, Self-Harm, cunt stretching, forced to fuck, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 16:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4674341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WomanFromTRASH/pseuds/WomanFromTRASH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby and Illya are taken prisoner during a raid on a THRUSH satrap, and Illya is forced to fuck her--and then they must deal with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Illya screams when the disembodied voice tells him what he must do to Gaby. It's the scream of a wounded animal, something dangerous and yet broken. He strains against the shackles that rein in his wrists and ankles, trying to break them, trying to rip the goddamn chains out of the wall. 

"It's no use, Mr. Kuryakin--that's old stone and titanium. You'll only hurt yourself trying." 

That's when he begins to thrash, throwing himself against the stone, pulling himself violently against the chains so hard that dislocation is a real possibility. There is a cool, rational part of him that calculates each move, each quantum of pain he inflicts upon himself. If he can hurt himself badly enough, he thinks, he'll be physically unable to do anything to Gaby. They'll have to let her go. 

The smug, androgynous voice coming out of the loudspeaker drawls, "If you hurt yourself too badly to service your lover, we'll be forced to kill her anyway. Would you rather she enjoy your soft caresses, or a bullet through her skull?" 

"I will find you," Illya says, "and I will kill you. Slowly." 

A tinny laugh. "Good luck."

Gaby is spread out on a stone table, like this is some kind of medieval torture chamber. Her legs hang off the edge of the table, pinioned with shackles, spreading her so Illya can see everything. Her breasts are small, perfect, delicate. She is unconscious, face turned to one side, and Illya is grateful that they will at least allow her that. She deserves so much better than this, and so it is better that she is asleep. 

He touches her thigh, remembering how much she was shaking when he was adjusting that transmistter, how thrilling and special it seemed just to be allowed to let his fingers brush against her skin. They can never go back to that innocent moment. Her skin is like rose petals, like something soft and easy to tear. 

Illya's fingers part the folds of Gaby's cunt. He licks his thumb, mouth too dry to provide much moisture, and then strokes the pad of his thumb over her clitoris. Gaby makes a soft moaning noise deep in her throat, unconscious and dreaming. If he can get her wet enough, trigger some kind of romantic dream...perhaps there won't really be any damage at all. Not to her. 

"A sleeping woman doesn't need foreplay," the voice says. "You're not here to seduce your girlfriend." 

"Forgive me," Illya says thickly, "I was under the impression that this required some--arousal--on my part." 

"If you can't get it up, we have a number of handy tools which you can use on your dear Gaby." As if out of nowhere, a light shines on the wall--a slide show. Illya sees pictures of a screwdriver, a poker, something that he thinks is probably a curling iron, and an empty Coca-Cola bottle. 

He closes his eyes and begins to stroke himself, hand moving rapidly and mechanically. The images that swim behind his eyes aren't the romantic fantasies that he entertains in a dreamy moment, but the painful, sharp ideas he conjures up when the only way to relieve tension is to orgasm as hard and quick as possible. His mother on her hands and knees, one man fucking into her from behind while she swallows the cock of another. Gaby pinning him to the ground, covering his mouth with one hand while she undoes his fly with the other and lowers herself onto his hard cock. Napoleon smacking that venomous Victoria on the ass, lazily fucking her with a rolling, easy motion. 

Illya is hard, and he doesn't want to be, and Gaby is so, so vulnerable.

Illya stalls for time, spitting into his hand, getting himself wet. The loudspeaker makes an impatient coughing noise, and at last he can stall no more. 

With a quick prayer that Gaby will sleep through the unpleasant experience, he uses one hand to spread her cunt out, the other to guide his cock into her. His cockhead dips into the warm folds of her flesh and stops as he meets resistance. Gaby's entrance is tight, unyielding. 

"Shove it in," says the voice, eager and cruel, and Illya does. He feels Gaby's flesh part, sees the red rim of her vagina stretch around the thick head of his cock. Gaby makes a soft, squeaky moan, and Illya stops until she's quiet. Whatever they drugged her with must be strong, and he desperately hopes it's not wearing off. 

He inches in slowly, giving her time to get used to the feeling, to let her cunt stretch out around his heavy cock. It feels amazing, tight and warm and smooth, and he knows that the incredible suction on his cock means that it must be hurting her. Hopefully there is no tearing. 

Finally, he's deep inside of her, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from thrusting with wild abandon. His cockhead meets flesh and stops--he isn't buried all the way inside her, there's an inch left, but this must be all she'll be able to take. He'll have to be very, very careful not to hurt her. 

And that's when Gaby stirs. Her eyelids flutter, and she turns to her head to look at Illya. She blinks, and to his astonishment she smiles. "Oh," she says, "I must be still dreaming."

"Yes," says Illya, voice thick. "Is dream." He pats on her on the cheek, throat stopped up with intense, choking guilt. 

Gaby smiles fondly at him, and then she tries to bring her arms forward--and cannot. Illya can see the light dawning in her eyes as she tries to move her arms, as she feels the rough stone underneath her and feels the chill of the cell on her skin, as she sees the dim walls of the cell. 

"This isn't a dream, Ms. Teller." The voice on the loudspeaker crackles through. "How does your partner's cock feel?" 

Gaby opens her mouth, her lips trembling. Illya's hands grind into the table, crumbling off bits of the mineral under his fingers. "Is over soon," he promises her. "Try to relax, and it will not hurt as much." 

"Illya," Gaby says, in a small, barely-there voice. She tries to choke back a sob, and fails. 

"You'd better get going, Mr. Kuryakin," says the voice. 

Illya screws his eyes shut and thrusts in. He can hear Gaby's soft grunt as his cock hits her flesh inside. He moves slowly, as gently as he can, as gently as he dares, as gently as the arousal coursing through his traitor of a penis will let him. 

"Illya, please." He opens his eyes, and Gaby's face is streaked with tears. "It hurts, Illya, please don't do this." 

"She's too tight, I'm afraid," says the voice. "You'd better loosen her up. Use your fingers." 

Illya slips out of her, as relieved as he can ever dare to be. There's no blood, at least. 

"I will try to make it not hurt," he says.

Three fingers in, and Gaby is shaking like a leaf. Illya puts his free hand on her stomach to calm her, but she jerks back under his touch. He concentrates on the slow motion of his fingers inside of her, on the way her muscles contract and loosen around him, on his thumb on her clitoris--that he can do now, at least. 

"Another finger, please. In fact..." There's a metallic clanking sound from the loudspeaker. "Put your whole hand in her. Let's see how much she can take." 

"Your whole hand, oh God," Gaby wails. But Illya feels her thighs tense up, and something warm, wet, and viscuous seeps over his fingers. It is Gaby's body protecting itself from the intrusion, accepting that it is inevitable, and trying to forestall the damage. 

Four fingers in, and Gaby is making soft whimpering noises in the back of her throat. She is painfully tight around Illya, terrifyingly so. A trickle of blood begins to stream down his fingers. 

Illya has gone beyond feeling anything, feeling the kind of remorse and horror that he was before. There's something in him that's gone numb, something that knows if he dared to feel what he should then he would doom them both. "That's all that will fit," he reports numbly. 

"It hurts," Gaby whispers, her voice amplified in the quiet room to something like a scream. "It hurts, Illya, please. It's going to tear me in half." 

"It's your choice now, Mr. Kuryakin. One more finger, or are you going to come inside your slut?"

Illya slides one finger out, then another, and takes some kind of solace in the look of relief on Gaby's face. "Better?" he asks in the lowest voice he can, after his hand is free. 

Gaby nods, biting her lip, face red and streaked with tears. She gives Illya a small, broken smile, and then her face slides back into a grimace of pain. "You're--you're not going to hurt me any more, are you?" 

Illya lowers his head. He cannot promise anything. "It will be over soon," he says. 

"And then what?" Gaby asks. She twists her mouth into something Illya cannot stand to look at. "We'll just go free? Do you really think that's what's going to happen?" 

Illya shakes his head. When whatever THRUSH functionary lies behind the speaker told him that they were going to kill Gaby, it was as though his mind had gone blank. Any strategic thought, any real plan he'd had to get them out of there had been gone, utterly gone, in the face of Gaby's death. 

"Maybe I will die, and they will let you live," he says. 

"And you'll never know if you don't put that cock where it belongs," says the voice. "Chop chop, or a bullet for both of you." 

Illya bites his lip so hard he can taste blood, and then he shoves himself back into Gaby. It doesn't seem to hurt her as much this time; she's not as tight around him, and he can move in and out of her a little more easily. She doesn't make a sound this time, watching him with narrowed eyes, although the winces and shudders she makes can't hide her pain.

"Get your dick all the way in her," says the voice. Illya shoves his cock as far into Gaby as he can, pressing against warm flesh that yields under his cock. Gaby moans and rattles her chains and begs for him to stop, begs him to be gentle, begs him not to tear her cunt apart. 

"Faster," says the voice. "I don't want to be here all day." And Illya speeds up, ramming into Gaby's cunt as she whimpers and squeaks and grunts with each hard thrust. Her cunt is so tight around him, her muscles gripping his cock with exquisite suction. If he were making love to her, he thinks, he'd be able to slide in and out of her, slow and gentle, savoring the way she feels deep inside. But now the only way to save Gaby is to force himself to orgasm, to come as quickly as possible so this nightmare can be over. 

So they can face whatever comes next. 

Gaby is gripping onto the sides of the table, head turned away from Illya. Her mouth is open, and she's breathing hard, no longer making any sound beyond the rasping of her breath. It's as though she's realized that her cries will do nothing, that the only way to survive this brutal attack is to conserve her energy. 

Illya closes his eyes and wonders what Gaby might have been dreaming about. Does she dream about him? Does some part of her desire to wake up finding Illya already inside her, his cock filling up her cunt, overwhelmed with his lust for her? Does she dream about being tied up and helpless, forced to accept pleasure in a delirium of lust? The idea that he might be part of her fantasies is intoxicating. He'd be a kind of construct for her pleasure, nothing but a wet mouth, gentle hands, and a hard cock--he could make her come over and over again, giving her his cock when she commands him. 

It's the idea of being Gaby's sex toy that pushes him over the edge. His hips thrust forward, and he comes hard into Gaby's warm, wet cunt. 

His fantasy is broken when she cries out in disgust. The loudspeaker laughs, a harsh and grating rasp. "And now you've knocked your little slut up. Do you like having your pussy filled with his come, Ms. Teller? How do you think you'll feel when you push his little brat out of your used-up cunt?" 

Gaby closes her eyes, wincing, motionless. Her cunt is red and raw, wide open and painful. When guards finally come to unshackle her, Illya's come drips down her thigh, mixing with her blood.


	2. Chapter 2

It is much later, after they have been delivered to UNCLE like packages trussed up in shackles, cleaned up, debriefed, and Gaby--according to the nurse who treated Illya with a combination of contempt and pity--has been given something called the "morning after pill." 

Illya is not punished. He is not interrogated. He has nothing taken away from him. He is not removed from UNCLE. He is not thrown into jail. He is not executed. 

"Stop asking, for God's sake, we're not going to punish you," says Mr. Waverly. 

"But I deserve--" 

"Yes, yes, I know, red-hot needles under the fingernails. Rats eating your face. The gulag." Mr. Waverly tosses off the possibility casually, almost hurriedly. "As far as UNCLE is concerned, you were coerced in the line of duty and did what you felt you had to do to protect your fellow agent after your mission was fulfilled." 

And the mission had been fulfilled, after all. They had managed to figure out, disarm, and then destroy the sonic reducer. They had even destroyed the only copy of the plans. 

"As for what may be between you and Ms. Teller, well, that's for you to work out." Mr. Waverly tents his fingers. "I know you've been studiously avoiding her, but quite frankly, Mr. Kuryakin, she's functioning far better than you are." 

So Illya is punished by having two weeks off and an appointment with a psychologist every day. "The same one that Ms. Teller is seeing," Mr. Waverly adds, which is no comfort at all. 

He has not had any reason to spend much time at all in New York, where UNCLE headquarters lies, where he must spend his downtime, and so he has been sleeping in the sparse bedrooms they keep for the occasional overnight guest. Time off means that he must quit the premises, however, and so he finds a seedy motel in a part of the city where, he is assured, nobody ever looks. 

He sits on the bed and drinks. The usual upswelling of hot, red, bilious energy does not come to him, and he cannot satisfy his anger by the frantic violence he is used to. It lies and rots inside of him, shriveling every part of himself until he is paralyzed and nauseous with self-loathing. 

Illya rouses himself enough to collect tools. He places his gun carefully under the bed, in reach if needed but out of sight--he is lucid enough to not desire self-destruction. Instead, he collects sharp things, painful things--a length of rope, a scalpel, pliers, a knife, an awl. A packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. 

There is a knock on the door, and Illya parts the blinds to peek out the window. It's Gaby, in a floppy straw hat, oversized sunglasses, and one of the bright designer sheath dresses she seems to favor. 

She hits the window. "I know you're in there, Illya," she shouts, her voice muffled slightly by the cheap glass. "Napoleon has been teaching me to pick locks. If you don't open the door I'm going to break in." 

Illya opens the door, his heart pounding for the first time in days. "Okay. I'm here." 

"Good." Gaby breezes past him and shuts the door behind her. She yanks open the blinds, letting wan, cloud-covered light into the room. "It's dark in here. What have you been--" A shaft of light illuminates the sparkling tools of pain on the bed, and her hand goes to her mouth. "Oh." She looks at him with pity. "Oh, Illya." 

"I am not going to kill myself," Illya reassures her, although it doesn't seem like that should be reassuring to Gaby. 

"Then what were you going to do?" Gaby scoops up the instruments, her hands shaking a little. "I know you don't smoke." 

"It seemed like good habit to pick up." 

"Don't bother." Gaby stands in front of him, her hands bristling with tools of pain. "I'm going to throw all of these out and then I'm going to take you out to lunch, okay? We're going to talk." 

Illya shakes his head. "I do not want to talk." 

"Then what?" Gaby shoves the tools into her purse. "Are you going to keep avoiding me?" 

Illya lowers his head and looks away from her. 

Gaby sits on the bed and touches Illya's cheek, turning his face towards hers. She takes off her sunglasses. "Illya. What they did, they did to both of us. I know you didn't want it any more than I did." 

"And yet you were one who--" Illya catches his breath. "Who was hurt." 

"You were, too." 

"I did that to myself." 

"It doesn't matter." 

"It does! I could have found a way to keep you safe. I could have found a way to escape for the both of us. I just--" Tears begin to well up in his throat, choking him. "I couldn't. I couldn't think. When they told me what I was going to do to you--" 

"And I could have found a way out of that laboratory that didn't involve us going past those guards. But it would have taken longer, so I didn't." Gaby crosses her legs primly. "If it is your fault, it's mine too. Neither of us wanted to be in that position, Illya." 

"It does not matter. Is not my fault. I will not be punished. But." 

"But." 

"You cannot tell me--" Illya nearly chokes on the words, but it is important, he must get them out. "You cannot tell me you are not hurt. That you do not look at me and see me--hurting you." 

Gaby's silence speaks volumes.

Gaby pulls the scalpel out of her bag. "What did you think this was going to do?" she asks. She holds it up in the light, and then tosses it on the bed between them. "Did you think that hurting yourself would make me feel better?" 

"I don't know." 

"Then you thought it would make you feel better about hurting me. My God, Illya." Gaby upends her purse. The matches fall out all over the bed, followed by the rope and assorted shining things. Some of them are Illya's tools. Some of them are Gaby's--a delicate silver gun, a makeup compact, a tube of lipstick that is obviously a communicator, and a real tube of lipstick. Illya vaguely wonders if she ever gets mixed up and tries to paint her lips with the communicator. 

She grabs something out of the pile without looking at it and brandishes it at him. It's the awl. "This is not the answer. You need to talk to me." 

"We can talk, and talk, and talk, and it will do nothing." 

"And not talking will somehow solve things?" Gaby throws the awl across the room. It lands point-first in the plaster. "Avoiding me will solve things? Sitting in a room alone and hurting yourself will--you know what, forget it." She holds up her hands. "I'm trying to get over it. I am. But when I see your face, I want to see the Illya I know, the Illya I share sandwiches with and go on stakeouts with. The Illya who has my back. I don't want to remember you standing over me like that." 

Gaby's forgiveness is too much. Illya buries his face in his hands. It will kill him, to have her forgive him like this. 

There is a soft touch on his shoulder. "I'm worried about you," she says. "We're all worried." 

The solution comes to Illya in a flash. Gaby doesn't want to see the monster, the Red Peril, the man thrusting with his cock inside of her. But looking at Illya, the man she knows and trusts, and knowing that he has that inside of him--that he can do that to her, even under duress--it would be too much for anyone. He knows that if someone were to do that to him, he would never really be able to trust them again. But if he let Gaby see him vulnerable, hers to command, able to inflict as much pain as she wanted-- 

"These are not for me," he says. "These are for you." 

Gaby takes a step back, her eyes narrowed. "What are you--what--" 

Illya cannot say it. He lifts his head to bare his throat, and he brings his hands together, wrists up. 

"Make me feel what you felt," he said. "As much pain as you felt. Then it will be even." 

Gaby blinks at Illya and sets her jaw. He imagines he must look pathetic, sitting on a sagging motel bed with his hands draped in his lap, eyes wide and pleading. Sitting there with the instruments of his destruction scattered around him, pleading for Gaby to hurt him. If Gaby doesn't hate him, perhaps she pities him. 

"I'll be back in an hour," she says. She points at him. "So don't you move. Don't you dare use any of those things on yourself until I come back." She closes the door. 

Illya sits in the same position, watching the sun track itself across the milky sky. For the first time in days, his head isn't spinning with self-loathing. His insides are rubbed raw and aching and he's bone-tired, but he only feels and doesn't think, and that's better than before. He trusts Gaby to come back, to make everything fair somehow. 

It's twilight by the time Gaby comes back. She's hiding behind her gigantic sunglasses and a Jacquelyn Kennedy coat, and carrying several brown paper bags. She steps quickly into the room and shuts the door behind her. "Here," she said, "I picked up a few things." 

One is a gigantic sandwich, wrapped in paper, that she tosses onto the bed. It's an Italian hero sandwich, Illya's favorite kind, and it's still hot. Illya doesn't hesitate to tear into it, barely tasting the meat as it burns the inside of his throat and coats his tongue with tangy grease. Gaby pushes her sunglasses down her nose and shoots him an impressed look, then uses her keys to flip off the top a bottle of Coca-Cola. She hands it to him, and he drains it. At least his stomach feels better, if nothing else--he knows he hasn't been eating enough lately. 

The other thing she tumbles out onto the bed lands in a tangle of leather straps and gleaming metal, a dull spot of black rubber. Illya stares at it. It's a fake penis, a prosthetic of some sort, more streamlined by far than a real one. The head is bulbous and teardroped-shaped. "Bozhe moi," he says, "where did you go to get that?" 

"A little shop near Times Square," Gaby says. "That blonde raptor of Napoleon's told me about it." She lifts up the fake penis. "It was an interesting experience. Do you think it will fit you?" 

Illya's thighs nearly fall open of their own accord. "I have no idea," he says. "None." 

"Okay," Gaby says. "I guess we'll find out." Her hands are shaking as she runs her hands up and down the length of the tool. "We'll find out together, won't we?" She flashes him a scared smile.


	3. Chapter 3

Gaby blinks at Illya and sets her jaw. He imagines he must look pathetic, sitting on a sagging motel bed with his hands draped in his lap, eyes wide and pleading. Sitting there with the instruments of his destruction scattered around him, pleading for Gaby to hurt him. If Gaby doesn't hate him, perhaps she pities him. 

"I'll be back in an hour," she says. She points at him. "So don't you move. Don't you dare use any of those things on yourself until I come back." She closes the door. 

Illya sits in the same position, watching the sun track itself across the milky sky. For the first time in days, his head isn't spinning with self-loathing. His insides are rubbed raw and aching and he's bone-tired, but he only feels and doesn't think, and that's better than before. He trusts Gaby to come back, to make everything fair somehow. 

It's twilight by the time Gaby comes back. She's hiding behind her gigantic sunglasses and a Jacquelyn Kennedy coat, and carrying several brown paper bags. She steps quickly into the room and shuts the door behind her. "Here," she said, "I picked up a few things." 

One is a gigantic sandwich, wrapped in paper, that she tosses onto the bed. It's an Italian hero sandwich, Illya's favorite kind, and it's still hot. Illya doesn't hesitate to tear into it, barely tasting the meat as it burns the inside of his throat and coats his tongue with tangy grease. Gaby pushes her sunglasses down her nose and shoots him an impressed look, then uses her keys to flip off the top a bottle of Coca-Cola. She hands it to him, and he drains it. At least his stomach feels better, if nothing else--he knows he hasn't been eating enough lately. 

The other thing she tumbles out onto the bed lands in a tangle of leather straps and gleaming metal, a dull spot of black rubber. Illya stares at it. It's a fake penis, a prosthetic of some sort, more streamlined by far than a real one. The head is bulbous and teardroped-shaped. "Bozhe moi," he says, "where did you go to get that?" 

"A little shop near Times Square," Gaby says. "That blonde raptor of Napoleon's told me about it." She lifts up the fake penis. "It was an interesting experience. Do you think it will fit you?" 

Illya's thighs nearly fall open of their own accord. "I have no idea," he says. "None." 

"Okay," Gaby says. "I guess we'll find out." Her hands are shaking as she runs her hands up and down the length of the tool. "We'll find out together, won't we?" She flashes him a scared smile.

She ties him to the bed, wrapping the bristly rope around Illya's hands. His wrists itch unbearably, almost to the point of pain. Instead of trying to minimize the damage, he rubs his wrists raw against the ropes until the irritation brightens to a clean, pure burn. He'll have marks on his wrists for days, no doubt, red and painful. He presses one cheek into the pillow and closes his eyes. His heart is even and slow for the first time in days, and the ache in his body is easing somehow. He feels the sharp prick of something precise and dangerous on the back of his neck, and suddenly all of his senses are tingling, his body is arcing up to meet the pain. 

"Hold still," Gaby says. "You must hold still, Mr. Kuryakin, or I'll have to cut you." Her voice is smooth, soft, comforting. "I wouldn't want to damage you any more than necessary." 

"How much is necessary?" he asks. 

"As much pain as it takes you to let me in," Gaby says. And that's when he feels the sharp point of pain running down his back. It's a shallow cut, the kind that sends flames shooting across one's back. "As much pain as you need to give up." Cool air blows across his back when Gaby peels away the fabric. She pushes the fabric over his head, wrapping it around his hands. "I want to make this clear," she hisses in his ear. "I don't care how much I hurt you. All I care about is getting back what you took from me." 

"Take it. Please, take it." Illya feels his arms wrench and winces in pain as she rolls him over on his back. She's yanking his pants off, drawing lines down his legs to shred his clothes. 

The scalpel presses to his thigh, flat end cold and wet against his skin. Its tip is digging into the crease between his leg and his crotch, a pinpoint of pure pain. "I could cut it off," Gaby says. "So you can never put it in any woman, ever again." 

Illya closes his eyes, wracked with nausea at the pleasure that shudders through his body. He imagines Gaby sawing through his cock while he screams his throat hoarse, the blinding pain consuming him. Gaby pulling him apart so he's nothing. He would heal, and every time he reached for his cock and found nothing, he would remember the relief of his surrender. 

"That's the easy way out," Gaby says. "And we're not doing that today." Illya opens his eyes as Gaby sits on her knees in front of him, holding a length of twine between her fingers. "Spread your legs. You're not going to be using your cock at all today. Maybe never again, if you struggle too much. I'll try to be careful, but I can't promise you'll come out of this unscathed." 

Illya obediently raises his legs as Gaby loops the twine around his balls, wrapping them tightly at the base before criss-crossing them with the string. The twine rubs against the sensitive skin of his genitals, and he hisses in pain as Gaby deftly makes a noose around the base of his cock before looping the string in a diamond pattern around his shaft. She spirals the string back down before tying it off in a neat knot, tugging everything tight-- 

The pain is belated, making him howl. It's a kind of burning beyond any pleasure, a constriction that feels like it's tearing his skin from his body. He feels a soft hand on his cheek, stroking his already-wet hair from his forehead. "Shush," Gaby says. "It'll be over soon. I promise you'll live through this." 

"That is not comforting," Illya grinds out. 

"It's not meant to be." Gaby is businesslike as she lifts her sheath dress over her head, revealing white cotton underwear and a featureless white bra. She is lovely, but the fact that she is not dressed for this to be a liason is somehow comforting. He watches as she tugs the harness over her legs, adjusting the leather straps and buckles until the impossible black rubber thing is sitting comfortably at her pubis.

Illya watches in mounting terror as Gaby drizzles the oil over her cock, slicking up the rubber with it. She strokes her cock slowly. "I'm not going to prepare you for this. You don't deserve it. This is to make it easier for me to fuck you and that's all." Illya nods, even though he doesn't quite believe it, and Gaby continues. "You're going to take this all for me and you're going to take whatever comes with it." 

She climbs up onto the bed and kneels, pressing the cock against his stomach. It feels slippery and hard, and it feels as though the tip presses up almost against his navel. As though it could rip right through him, fill his body up with Gaby's hard, unfeeling rubber cock. 

Gaby's fingers pry him open, and then the wet head of her cock is splitting him in half. He howls as the cock pushes its way in, rough and raw and hard. It's like sandpaper inside him, his flesh giving way to the cold invasion. 

"Take it," Gaby hisses. "I don't care if you scream. I don't care if you bleed. You're going to take it all and see how it feels." 

He can feel the tip of Gaby's cock pressed against his stomach, against the beating of his heart, and he's still and petrified around her hard, unforgiving cock. Every muscle he has wants to constrict around the invader. 

But when she starts to thrust he goes limp. He's a wet rag under her thrusts, a piece of gristle and blood she's pounding into the mattress. He's being split apart from the inside out, torn into pieces, his entire mind gone in a haze of pain. His body is no longer his own, because Gaby is in him from the inside out and at the core of him. 

"Does it," he gasps, "does it feel good?" 

Gaby chokes, or maybe laughs. "You're asking me if it feels good to rape you?" 

She's raping him. Illya closes his eyes and glories in it for a moment, letting the words sink into his mind. All context is gone. Illya only knows that he deserves this, that he deserves to be tied up so that Gaby can force her way into his body. If Napoleon were here, too, he'd take a turn, shoving his cock into Illya over and over until he cried. Maybe Gaby will tell Napoleon, and they can both tie him up in this anonymous motel room and take turns opening him up with their cocks. Maybe they'll even force their way in together, stretching his body to its limit, splitting his guts until he bleeds. 

The pain is piercing and pure now, white-hot and perfect.

Illya is certain that he's been cored hollow, that everything inside of him is gone. His guts, his heart, he's just an empty shell and Gaby is thrusting into him so hard, so raw, and he's perfectly at peace. He can't think and he can barely feel. She will destroy him, and with his last breath he will thank her for it. 

And then suddenly there's pressure building up inside of him, something shooting and red-hot concentrating at his groin. His body is moving without his input, no matter how hard he tries to stop it. His muscles cramp and tense and relax as Gaby's cock rapes him out, and he feels squeezed into nothing as everything hot and angry inside of him tries to leave and can't. It's come down to this one point of tension in his body, and he's to the point of screaming because it will burn him out-- 

There's a snipping sound, and then suddenly his cock is part of his body again and he's coming in long, angry spurts that make his body ache bone-deep. It's like all of the pain is leaving his body through his cock, burning hot and without any physical pleasure. 

"You come from being used like this, huh?" Gaby says, through her teeth. She withdraws slowly, leaving an ache and profound, stretching emptiness where the hard rubber cock was. Illya watches in a daze as Gaby wriggles out of the harness. She lies down beside him, but not touching him. 

"You're panting like a fish," she says. 

"Da," says Illya. 

"I came," Gaby says, "I came when you fucked me. When you raped me." She draws circles on the bed. "I came so hard from your cock inside of me, and God, Illya, it felt good, even though it hurt so much. Did you feel like that?" 

Illya closes his eyes. "I feel empty. But it feels good." 

"Good." Gaby presses her lips to his cheek, and then stands up. She slings the harness over her shoulder and disappears into the washroom. Illya can hear the sound of running water. 

He closes his eyes and turns his cheek to the pillow.


End file.
